


Secret Keeper

by innerslytherin



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerslytherin/pseuds/innerslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't imagine what has brought him here, to you. He is lacerated, bruised, and bleeding; he is soaked and shivering; and the relief on his face tells you that he trusts you far more than is wise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-HBP-compliant

You can't imagine what has brought him here, to you. He is lacerated, bruised, and bleeding; he is soaked and shivering; and the relief on his face tells you that he trusts you far more than is wise.

You open the door.

"What the bloody hell happened to you?" Your voice is not compassionate, not shocked. It does not betray that you are glad he is still alive.

He gives you a look that says your question was a foolish one. You glower at him. He makes you feel inferior, a fact which continually infuriates you--but then everything about him infuriates you.

"Death Eaters," he mutters, and leans against the doorframe. "May I come in?" Rainwater drips from his short hair and runs down his face like tears. He doesn't brush it away.

You nod and move out of the way, wondering what brought him here. Does Albus finally have something for you to do? You have been cooped up in this house all summer, leaving it only when you attend Order meetings. The Mark burns frequently; your former master still seeks to punish you for your treachery. But Lupin is protecting you, and you thought Dumbledore was protecting Lupin. You have caught up on your scholarly reading, you have written a journal article of your own, and you are--for the most part--free of the horrid brats with whom you are forced to spend three-fourths of your life. Of course you can't avoid seeing Potter and his hangers-on since they are all living at Grimmauld Place.

Somehow, peace and quiet have not been all you had imagined they would be.

"I was running an errand for Albus," he says, his slightly-hoarse voice quiet. "I hadn't expected them to be quite so watchful." He sways on his feet, shivering violently. You grimace.

"You'd best get cleaned up," you say, shutting the door and re-warding the house. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you weren't followed?"

He glares, and it's so rare that it's frightening, though you won't admit it. You almost believe it's meant for them and not you. You _hope_ it is meant for them. "I wasn't followed, Severus." He sighs then and looks down, his shoulders slumping. You can't imagine what it means, but he obviously doesn't want to talk about it, and it isn't your business anyway. You shrug and lead him down the hallway to the bath.

"How much healing will you need?" you ask, your voice dispassionate. You are not the healer that Pomfrey is, but brewing healing potions and working with her for fifteen years has given you more than enough skill to deal with anything less than life-threatening injuries or nerve damage.

"I'm mostly just bruised," he says. His voice seems harsh, somehow. It doesn't suit him. You say nothing. "I have a cut across my lower back," he admits finally, moving past you into the bath. "I think the bleeding has stopped."

You nod, taking in the darker quality of the liquid that has soaked the back of his shirt. He shrugs out of it, wincing as he moves a shoulder wrong. You can't help looking at the spatter of bruises and welts on his chest, some older than others. He turns to show you the cut, and the bleeding has stopped, though you don't doubt the water will coax it back. You run your wand-tip along the cut, a bare centimetre from the skin, whispering charms that will cause blood to clot, muscle to re-knit, skin to grow back smoothly.

He looks at you in surprise. "Thank you, Severus." His expression is, for the first time, almost normal. "That would have healed on its own."

You shrug, uncomfortable. "I'll get you a towel." He turns his back on you to start the water, and you walk away.

 

When you return with the towel, some soft flannel pyjamas, and an ointment that should ease away most of the bruising and swelling, you find he hasn't waited. His clothes lie in a sodden heap on the floor. He is in the shower, faced turned up to the spray.You stop, transfixed against your will. The welter of bruises is not confined to his chest and back. There is a large swollen bruise on his hip, and several smaller ones on one muscular calf. You frown. He is a werewolf; his physiology requires that he heal faster than regular humans. Why would he have so many bruises, some of them obviously older than others? The largest number are obviously new, some of them still red around the edges while the blood pools a violent purple in the center. But there are some that have faded to blue or even green. When was the last full moon? Nearly a week ago, you think, though of course the only reason you know is because you are still brewing that potion for him every month.

He shifts, lowering his head to let the water beat against the back of his neck, and a rush of heat goes through you. You realize you have been staring, and you don't know for how long. Clearing your throat quietly, you set the towel and flannels on the counter and leave.

You are halfway down the hall to the sitting room when you realize you still have the jar of healing unguent in your hand. Sighing, you turn and go back.

Lupin has barely moved. One hand is now massaging the muscles of his left shoulder, but his head is still bowed under the water. _Just how long did he spend out in the rain tonight,_ you wonder.

Before you have time to regret it, you are unbuttoning your sleeves and rolling them up, exposing the Dark Mark on your left forearm. You glare at it for a moment out of habit, then unstopper the jar and dip your fingertips inside. Coating your palm with it, you move to the shower and push the sliding glass door open. The noise startles him and he begins to turn, but you push against his shoulder, and he catches his breath and then goes still.

Without speaking, you begin working the palliative over the worst of the bruises, pausing to massage more firmly when he hisses in reaction to your touch in any certain spot. The steam is dampening your clothes and making your hair cling to your face, and your heart rate is doing alarming things, but you are not about to stop. When you decide to do something, you will do it if it kills you; you are nothing if not dedicated. After a while you realize he is leaning into your touch, his head back, his eyes closed. You frown, your hands suddenly less gentle. Why does it unsettle you that he trusts you so? You are having difficulty breathing.

When you finish with his shoulders and back, your hands move to his arms. Working the ointment into his biceps leaves you slightly light-headed, and you, at least, can no longer deny what this has become. Merlin, are you this lonely? That you could think of bedding a werewolf who has nearly killed you twice, someone who insists upon disregarding his own well-being in favour of others, an irresponsible, impetuous man who is entirely too trusting? You are scowling as you slide your hands hungrily over his delicious skin.

"Severus." His voice is low; you can barely hear it over the sound of the water. You decide to ignore it.

That works until he turns in your hands. You grip his arms more tightly, refusing to let him face you. You know he is as aroused as you are. Alarmed, you allow your eyes to meet his.

The look on his face makes your heart stop momentarily. He is looking at you as if you were the one who invented the wolfsbane potion (well, you are, but he has never known that, and there is no call for him to know that). His honey-brown eyes are practically glowing, and there is no guard behind them now, as you are so accustomed to seeing. His lips are parted, as if he is going to speak, and you wish desperately to stop him.

You reach down to grip his erection, hoping he will simply be silent and let you do this. It is not really what you want, but you have learnt better than to ask for what you want out of life.

"Severus," he murmurs again, and steps closer to you, completely ignoring the fact that you are fully clothed and have been attempting to keep your robes somewhat dry.

You lower your gaze, wishing he would let you get on with it.

That is apparently the wrong reaction, because his body tenses and he reaches down to grip your wrist and gently pull your hand away. "Severus," he says again, and his tone is very different now. You imagine you can detect sadness, or perhaps regret--or perhaps that is merely your own regret. "Don't do this if you don't mean it," he says.

Confused, you look up at him again. You do mean it; surely he can't think you are teasing him, that you would do this merely to be cruel. Admittedly you have been very cruel to him during your life--but he has been just as cruel to you, has he not? But the expression on his face isn't anger or resentment; he looks...tender. Sad. Hurt, almost.

Your chest contracts and you open your mouth. "I just thought--"

"No," he interrupts, and sighs, and releases your wrist. You back away, feeling awkward and uncomfortable and unhappy.

You go to the sitting room to collapse in a chair and stare blankly at _Potions Today_. When you hear the shower turn off, you turn the page. He comes out dressed in your pyjamas and you have to swallow against the strange feeling in your throat. He is oddly humble as he asks if you have a place for him to rest.

You nod and clear your throat, then say, "Take my bed." He has a strange look on his face, so you add, somewhat defensively, "It's all there is." His expression clears slightly and he vanishes back down the hall.

 

He sleeps for a long time. After the first hour you go to check on him, wondering if perhaps he had been injured worse than he admitted. It occurs to you, as you look at him, that perhaps it was not kind to give your bed to a werewolf, with his keen senses, after whatever happened between you earlier. But he doesn't seem uncomfortable. He is sprawled atop the dark green eiderdown, his limbs slack, his breathing deep and steady.

You move closer. He seems completely relaxed. How can he be relaxed when he is in your house, under your protection? How can he trust you so? You were a Death Eater and his enemy, and you have wanted revenge on him for years. But as your gaze traces his features, you know you have not hated him for a long time. You would not take your revenge even if it were offered to you. You reach out, slowly, watching your hand as it lifts to trace his lips with a gentle fingertip. His breathing hitches, then relaxes again. Reassured, you lean forward and brush your own lips across his, wondering how it would be if you did this when he was awake.

He stirs, and you flee.

 

You can't return to the room after that, though you also can't resist walking past the door several times. You listen to his breathing, trying to shake the confusion that is rioting in your mind. You cannot even decide, when you hear him stirring, whether you are frightened or relieved. You hover at the door, peering in.

Lupin is sitting on the bed, frowning down at his pyjamas. While you were waiting for him to wake, you have magically cleaned and mended his trousers, but there was no help for the shirt; it was too shredded to be salvaged. You wonder again what exactly he went through, then remind yourself that it isn't your business and you don't care. When he stands up and reaches for his trousers, you turn and walk quickly away.

You are in the kitchen when he comes out, dressed only in his trousers, and carrying his shoes. He seems completely self-contained, as if he is secure in himself. You envy him.

"Thank you for sheltering me, Severus," he says, his quiet voice mild and friendly. "I shan't impose on you further."

Suddenly unwilling to be alone yet, you open your mouth and, for the first time in a long time, blurt the first words that come to you. "Er. I'm getting ready to have supper. You could join me. If you want."

You are expecting him to grin that idiotic beaming grin that could light up a room, so it surprises you when he tenses and scowls. "I don't need your pity, Severus," he snaps.

You stare at him. Does he not realize whom he is talking to? When have you ever been known to have pity on anyone, least of all him? What can he be thinking? You try to imagine something to say, but no words will come to you.

He has been watching you, and suddenly his expression softens. Perhaps he has read it in your face--though no one ever has, and no one ever _should_ be able to read your expression. Perhaps he is simply giving in to wishful thinking. In any event, his mouth relaxes, and he sighs quietly. "Well, perhaps not," he murmurs. "Very well. Thank you, Severus. I shall."

Somehow these words make you both glad and anxious.

 

~*~

 

Of course dinner is awkward, but you find suddenly that even awkward is better than solitary. You do not look directly at one another, though both of you steal glances. It is almost a relief when you finish your pudding and put down your fork with careful precision. You lift your eyes to find him studying you, curious.

"Why would you do this?" he asks softly.

You give him a flat stare, unwilling to even entertain the question. How dare he ask something so personal? So presumptuous?

"Trust me as your secret-keeper I mean," he clarifies. "I would have thought that of all people, I would be the last you would trust."

You clear your throat. Ah, that. You thought he meant... Well. "On the contrary, Lupin," you say, your voice calm. "You have seen first-hand what happens when a secret-keeper breaks his oath. I know it would destroy you to betray someone, even me. Your desperate desire to be friends with everyone gives you away. I understand you." And you would trust him with your life.

It surprises you when he smiles sadly and shakes his head. "Poor Severus. I am afraid you'll never understand me."

You glare at him, offended, but he has turned his gaze to the table, and the sorrowful expression hasn't left his face. That offends you, too. You sit in silence for at least five minutes, disgruntled, glaring at your teacup because he is taking no notice of your annoyance. To give yourself something to do, you get up and refill both your teacups. He finally looks up at you and murmurs something; though you can't make out the words, you know they are words of gratitude.

You are returning to your seat, attempting to resign yourself to grudging silence, when he speaks again, startling you.

"There were four of them." His voice is low, almost conversational, but there is an undercurrent of strain in it. "Four of them, waiting for us to make the first move. They knew Dumbledore would be sending someone. Of course they didn't know who. We've worked very hard to keep my identity secret. After all, Voldemort would never suspect me of keeping your secrets. Lucius and Peter both know very well how much you hate me."

You lift your eyes to his face, but he is still looking at the table, so there is no chance to tell him that you don't hate him, that you haven't, in fact, hated him for a long time. But there has never been a chance to tell him that, anyway, has there? Throughout the year you taught together, when you watched him closely and realized he could never hurt Harry, could never hurt anyone whom he chose to love. Throughout the year when Black was on the run and you had a captive audience in Lupin, who reported to Dumbledore at the same time each week-during the same time you reported to Dumbledore. Throughout the bitter year when you were forced to watch him and Black resume their old dance. Throughout the guilty aftermath of Black's death, when you could offer no comfort because that would involve offering yourself-and you knew he wouldn't want it.

But he is still talking.

"I'm not important enough in the Order for them to be watching me, unless they suspected me of keeping secrets. We tried to make it so they would never suspect that." He rubs at his forehead, and you wonder if he is really talking to you anymore. "Obviously we failed. I failed."

He is silent for a time, and you open your mouth to say something. Though what, exactly, you are going to say, you don't know. He doesn't give you a chance to find out. "I wasn't expecting them, but once they caught up with me, I realized they'd want me alive. I knew I had two options." He shudders, and you realize suddenly that you don't want him to keep talking, yet you don't know how to shut him up.

"I could force them to kill me, or I could kill them." His voice is hollow. He is still staring at the tabletop. And now you know what he has done, and why your words about being followed were so stupid.

Your mouth is dry. You have to swallow twice before you can speak. "You could have given me up."

Those golden eyes flicker up to you, and they are flat, opaque. "You will never understand, will you?" he says in a very small voice.

No, you think. No, you never will. But you do know what he is saying, even if you don't understand it.

"Probably not," you admit. Your voice is quiet, raspy...hesitant. You have never heard yourself sound like this before, but you've also never felt quite like this before. Frightened, guilty, grateful, humbled-humbled! Of all things. Your breath comes slightly faster as his gaze returns to the tabletop. His expression would be unreadable to anyone who has not spent hours, in stolen increments of time, studying that face. But you have. You know he is disappointed-more than disappointed. He has only ever looked this way twice that you have seen. Once was the day after the-the-that incident where Black tried to kill you. The other was when he returned to Grimmauld Place the day Black died.

"But," you say, and still your voice is hesitant, humble, "Lupin, I will try."

He lifts his head slowly and stares at you.

"I trust you," you offer. For four long years. "I...tolerate your company." Crave it. Thirst for it. Ache for it. "I..."

But the closed look has come over his eyes again, and you still feel humble, but now you are angry and frustrated. You move forward so you can grasp his wrist.

"I cannot change everything about myself in two hours," you snarl.

He looks down at your hand on his arm. He looks up at your face.

Remus smiles.

 

~*~

 

He doesn't realize how profoundly it has affected you, that he would kill to protect your life. But perhaps that is fair, you muse, since there are obviously things you haven't realized about him.

You haven't moved; you are still reaching across the table, gripping his wrist. You are torn between a strange desire to open your mouth and let words pour out, and a better-understood desire to touch him again as you touched him earlier. You meet his bright eyes and you wonder what he is thinking. You could know, of course, and so subtly he wouldn't even realize what you were doing. But he deserves better treatment, and so you say nothing...but you keep your hand on his arm.

"Is that why you volunteered to be Secret Keeper?" you ask finally. It is obviously not what he was expecting. You don't know what you should have said, though; you keep your eyes on his, and after a long while he sighs.

"So you wish me to explain?" he asks, a question for a question. It throws you off, but you shrug.

"There is no need-" you begin, but he interrupts.

"It's just that I can't keep being vulnerable to you, if you aren't going to reciprocate. I have trusted you with so much of myself, Severus. I can't stand to have you...mock that."

Mock? You glare at him, feeling displeased that he would expect mockery of you. No, displeased isn't quite the word; but it takes a moment for you to dredge up the proper one. You are hurt. Hurt that he thinks you would mock him for being vulnerable-because it's been a long time since you seriously mocked him for anything, except as a way to provoke him to react to you in some way, any way, even anger.

You realize you are still glaring at him. His expression is growing defensive, closed, and that pains you. You tighten your fingers around his wrist.

"I wouldn't," you say. You wonder if he understands that the way you mean it. His expression doesn't change, so you decide you had better clarify. You open your mouth, but your words don't seem to be obeying you. "I thought you didn't see. All these years, you never seemed to realize, and after all, you had him-" You want to swallow your own tongue to stop the babble of words that is flowing from your mouth...but his expression is bewildered and you know if you stop speaking now he'll never understand, and somehow that thought is intolerable now, even though only twenty-four hours ago you thought you would live with this forever.

"I was never anything compared to him and we all knew it. Even after he died I knew I couldn't stand up against his memory. I hated him for that-for having you." You experience a sudden wish that the earth would swallow you up. Perhaps it is possible to die of humiliation. But your embarrassment doesn't stop you. After all, there are always memory charms. "I forced myself to be rude to you. I had to go out of my way to vex you-don't you see, Lupin, it was the only way to protect myself." You have more to say, but suddenly he is standing, and his amber eyes are alight, full of-something-and you have never felt more frightened and powerless and vulnerable in your life.

"Severus," he breathes, and your name on his lips is different, somehow, than it has ever sounded before. And you realize suddenly that this is what he was asking for. You have given him this, and it is a part of yourself, and that light in his eyes says he will not use this against you, he will not mock you, he will not reject you.

He takes a step nearer to you. You don't remember letting go of his wrist, but suddenly he is the one holding on to you-which is a good thing, because otherwise you know you would be backing away; regardless of how your body is drawn towards him, your mind wants you to flee. He moves another step nearer, and you are struck suddenly at how graceful the wolf can be when he is stalking his prey. Then you remind yourself that he is Remus and you are Severus, and you are not prey...or are you? Your mind is whirling.

He says your name again and you can hardly push back the tide of yearning that is rising in you. Why must he do this? The years of his unfailing politeness have made you accustomed to the thought that he doesn't want you. But this reaction from him now, this strange light in his eyes, this sudden aggressive advance... You tug against his grip, wondering if he will let you go.

He does not. He waits until you are relenting, then he tugs, and you are caught off guard-or perhaps you're merely unsettled-or perhaps you want this. But in any event you are pulled forward, off-balance, and he catches you, catches you in his arms, and you are leaning against him, suddenly, in a way that is at once maddening and exciting. "Severus," he breathes again, and even though you are excited by the new note in his voice, you feel it would be less than prudent to let him know.

"Have you suddenly lost your capability to form coherent sentences?" you mutter, though your tone isn't as arch as you would like it to be.

And your comment backfires. "Oh, most definitely," he purrs-purrs! A grown man, a werewolf, _purring_! And it sends a flash of heat through your body, one that is quickly subsumed by a raging inferno of desire, because then Remus leans up (because he is shorter than you, and you have always taken petty satisfaction in this fact) and presses his mouth against yours.

Until now, you thought you had been kissed before.

His lips brush yours softly for the barest instant before he increases the pressure. He had been holding on to your wrist to keep you from retreating, but suddenly his hands are cradling your head, his nimble fingers tangled in your hair. He caresses you with his lips, slightly teasing, and you part your own lips to gasp something, and his tongue slides delicately into your mouth, and it is at this moment you think you are going to die, because something you imagined has become real, and it is so much better than you ever could have expected. You open your mouth to him, surrendering, and you realize you have surrendered entirely to him-not just this kiss, or this evening, but your heart, your life.

You know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you will never recover from this kiss.

He pulls away enough to whisper, "Severus, tell me you feel the same way I do."

You choke on the words, not because they are untrue, but because this vulnerability is frightening, and you wonder how Remus has lived so vulnerably for so long. "I do feel it," you manage.

And after that there's no point in words.


End file.
